


I Couldn't Do It Alone

by Blurhawaii



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blurhawaii/pseuds/Blurhawaii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder finally realizes that he can't do this alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been listening to the new Dear Hunter album a lot lately and one of the songs inspired me to write. Something about it just make me think of Mulder/Krycek. I've also wanted to try writing in 2nd person, something that I have never really dabbled with before, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

Just looking at his smug face is enough to send you into a frenzy. Your body vibrates with barely contained need. Need to reach out and grasp anything and everything. The impulse to scratch at his worn leather with your fingernails is almost too much and the promise of the pleasant thrum down your spine, that you know the action will give you, almost wins out.

But you don’t. You can’t. You’re not allowed to let it show.

So instead of reaching out, you swing out. Your fist collides with his face emitting a satisfying smack. It gives you as much pleasure as you imagine grabbing a handful of leather would, so you find yourself not regretting your decision.

“Mulder, you don’t have to do this,” he growls out through a rapidly reddening clenched jaw.

The sound of his husky voice, deeper now than usual, maybe because of pain or simply desire to be believed, you don’t really know. Strange enough, you don’t really care; either way, the voice affects you the same way.

Your body now burns, from the shell of your skin all the way down to your bones. You can’t help it, and you wish it wouldn’t, but your body reacts to the man in front of you in a way that both shames you and excites you.

“Shut up, Krycek,” you snarl as you swing out again.

He wasn’t expecting another hit so soon and your punch sends him sprawling onto the dirt at your feet. You know it has to hurt because a bruise is already beginning to form across the skin of his cheek. If you look close enough, you’re almost certain you can see the bruise forming on his soul as well. That deep dark pit that should resemble a soul, at least.

The surprise is visible for a second but the fleeting insight swiftly disappears as his façade falls back into place. He looks up at you with those pretty green eyes of his, far too pretty to belong on a man’s face, let alone an assassin’s. He blinks once, twice and seems to make a conscious effort to get back on his feet.

You want to be a dick. You want to lean across the gap between your bodies and nudge him as he shakily rises so badly but, again, you curb your urges. You briefly reflect that you deserve some sort of a medal as your hands shake uncontrollably.

You watch him stand back up, spine straight and chin held defiantly high. Somehow, the bruise does little to detract from the solid stance; if anything it only makes him look better, stronger even. You hate that.

Waiting, you expect him to strike you back. You wait longer until eventually you are just staring as he stares back.

“Do you think you can hold off on your urges long enough for me to explain myself?” Krycek taunts in a voice that implies he already knows the answer.

“What can a dead man know that would interest me?” You answer as spitefully as you can manage.

“You’d be surprised at what a dead man knows, Mulder.”

Krycek lifts his hands into the air as a show of good faith, as a sign to you that he means no harm. You deliberately ignore the offer and instead focus on the mismatched colour of his hands. One of them shines and reflects light off its plastic surface.

He notices your calculating gaze directed at his prosthetic and frowns at you. You try to keep your face blank; you probably fail.

With his good hand, he reaches into his jacket. The moment it disappears behind the leather you spring into action again. You’re not stupid. His feigning innocence is not going to fool you for a second.

This time, your punch catches him open mouthed. He was probably in the motion of explaining himself as he reached into his jacket but your quickness and paranoia, as well as your fist, stifle his words. Instead of shock, resignation, with a hint of annoyance, flashes across his face when he recovers from the strike. Blood begins to run from his lip but he ignores it. When his hand re-emerges from his jacket there is a manila folder in its grasp.

Embarrassment, at being wrong and having jumped the gun, is an emotion that doesn’t even register with you. Lust, on the other hand, is a different matter.

“If you knew what I went through to get these, you’d keep a tighter rein on those fists of yours,” Krycek spat, along with a mouthful of blood.

“Don’t count on it,” is all you can manage in response.

“Mulder, I didn’t come here just to piss you off. If you can believe it, I actually want to help you.”

And damn it if Krycek doesn’t sound sincere. You almost want to believe him. Almost being the factoring word here.

“I can believe a lot of things, Krycek, but not that,” you say in parting as you turn on your heel and begin to walk away. You trust him enough not to put a bullet in your turned back but not enough to believe he suddenly wants to be best friends.

“Wait!” Krycek shouts before you get too far. “For fucks sake, Mulder. Please stay.”

It is not the ‘wait’ that gets you to turn around, it’s the ‘please’. You like the feeling the word gives your ego, especially when it comes out of Krycek’s mouth.

The man in the distance looks ragged. There is a fist shaped bruise on his cheek; his lip is swollen and bloody; his fake arm hangs dead by his side and his pretty green eyes insist that you come back. And who are you to say no.

You close the distance slightly and Krycek sighs in relief. He flourishes the folder in his hand and then tosses it onto the dirt between your feet.

“Pick it up. Just read it,” he says, adding “please” as an afterthought.

Looking at him, the folder on the ground and then back to his pleading gaze, you realise that he knows the word affects you. You begin wonder if he knows just how much it affects you. The often referred to fantasy containing Krycek writhing underneath you, the word ‘please’ a constant litany out of his ravaged mouth, takes over your brain. Would he still use the word so baiting if he knew?

You reach down for the folder, watching Krycek’s eyes on the way down and the way back up. He looked happy about you deeming him trustworthy enough to even bother with and as you turn the folder over in your hands you come to a decision.

You can’t do this alone.


	2. Curse Of Cynicism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krycek makes a decision.

‘Please’ is on the tip of your tongue again. Who knows, maybe saying it once more will finally break him. You’re not blind; you can see the way his eyes darken, looking almost hungry, when you mumble the word. You can’t help but notice how he swallows on reflex when you purposefully add a slight whine to your usually deep voice. You know, only too well, how to play him but, for once, you don’t want to. For once, you actually want to help.

On the other hand, you understand his reluctance. Just because you want to help him doesn’t mean he wants to be helped. This cycle of deceit and distrust that has been the backbone to your relationship has become just that, a backbone; a crutch that neither one of you wants to give up. If you’re not his enemy, then what are you? Without the lies, what do you have to talk about?

You zero in on the folder in his hands; the folder you risked everything for just to get it into his grasp. If only he knew what you went through to get that then maybe he would finally understand the dangers you have put yourself through for him. You have always been a wanted man, although usually only from one side of the law, but thanks to that seemingly innocuous manila folder, you can now call yourself the most wanted man. From this point onwards, you would gladly hand yourself over to the Feds as long as it meant the Consortium never got their hands on you. You recall the phrase, ‘the lesser of two evils’ and smile slightly to yourself.

Mulder’s eyes flicker down to your self-gratuitous smile and strangely it’s that moment that makes you realise the smile is completely real. You’re not trying to goad him, no matter what it must look like; you are just genuinely feeling emotionally and physically light and unburdened, despite the persistent ache of your cheekbone and the stinging of your lip. You just hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way.

It’s Mulder, though. So you know that’s not a possibility.

His eyes narrow at your short lived joy and you want to backpedal immediately. You can’t do this anymore. If his fist comes hurtling towards your face again, then you’re done, you decide silently.

“Why?” Mulder asks, out of the blue.

You’d be lying if you said the question didn’t surprise you because it does, a lot. A punch was expected; you wished against it but you thought you knew Mulder well enough to know it was the most likely reaction to your display of vulnerability, but a soft imploring voice from Mulder’s mouth was something you never thought you’d be on the receiving end of.

You let the silence stretch long enough to make him think you’re not going to answer, and then you shrug.

“Because.”

You know it’s not a real answer, more of a reply than anything else, but you know Mulder’s not adverse to pointlessly cryptic answers either so you hope he understands what you mean because for some reason you find yourself unable to just out rightly say what you really feel. A punch would be unavoidable if you did.

In that one word, you try to say everything that you’ve wanted to say for years. About how everything you have ever done has, in some roundabout way, been for Mulder, and that manila folder is paradoxically the best and worst thing you’ve ever done for him.

You risk moving closer, enjoying the fact that even though Mulder looks at you strangely he doesn’t step away.

“That folder should tell you everything that you want to know. Either that or it will open enough doors for you to know everything.”

You want to add ‘Do you get it yet Mulder?’ but you leave it unsaid.

The look in his eyes tells you everything you need to know anyway.

It’s not like you were expecting him to drop many years of ingrained impulses and beliefs just because you show a slight change in alignment but you really wish he could at least reign in that look of mistrust.

Mulder stares back at you with narrowed distrustful eyes and your body feels hollow.

‘I call bullshit, Krycek’ and ‘What are you planning, you rat bastard?’ are going to be the next things out of Mulder’s mouth, you can tell, and you can feel the remaining energy drain out of your battered and bruised body. You feel empty.

There’s nothing left for you to do but take a retreating step backwards. You’d sigh in disappointment but you know your ribs would complain about the movement.

You shuffle back a few more steps and risk one last look at Mulder. He has his eyes dropped to the folder in his hands and his face is casually blank. Now would be the best time to slip away unnoticed. If you can do it right then maybe you can avoid another shot to the gut.

Don’t look back. You repeat the words to yourself in hopes that the childish logic will become true. If you can’t see him then he can’t see you.

Slipping into the shadows and never been so difficult.


End file.
